


Off-Camera

by themorninglark



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, Kenhina Friendship, Kuroken friendship - Freeform, M/M, Makeup Artist/Model AU, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5322482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/themorninglark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Akaashi Keiji," says Akaashi. His voice is low, a calm, pleasant timbre that fades easily into the background buzz of the studio. "Nice to meet you, Kozume-san. I'm in your hands today."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off-Camera

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harklights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harklights/gifts).



> (Written for the prompt: SFX makeup artist Kenma/model Akaashi)
> 
> dear harklights: hello!! I am super stoked to be sharing this with you. Thank you for the wonderful prompt (AkaKen! YES PLEASE), I only hope it's as fun for you to read as it was for me to write. Happy HQHols! ♥
> 
> with thanks to the lovely Winny for beta-ing, helping me whip this into shape and sharing Nekoma love :)

Kenma's favourite part of the job is the silence.

That, and the way it gives his restless hands something to do besides pushing buttons. He likes watching the picture in his mind come to life beneath each careful flick of his wrist, each painstaking layer of paint and prosthetics.

Even if the look seems impossible at first, just a character he dreamed up in swift strokes on paper; if he keeps his eyes peeled, keeps going, step by step - he can do it. It's an art where patience pays off, and that's something Kenma appreciates.

Mostly, though, he likes the silence.

 

* * *

 

It is 7:57am on a Friday morning when Kenma, with immense reluctance, drags himself out of bed, onto the metro and into production with nothing but a bottle of milk tea from the vending machine as sustenance.

He yawns, the city air grey and dusty and tickling his nose as he pushes open the door of their tiny, overcrowded studio. There's the welcome sight of a tray of onigiri on the front desk.

Kenma picks out his onigiri carefully. Not too big. Not too small. Seaweed tightly wrapped round a more or less regular shape. That way, he has a higher chance of getting one made by Yaku; the alternative is Lev, and, _well_.

He heads over to makeup.

Every square inch of his workspace is covered: model heads and sculpting clay, post-its, liquid latex, hasty sketches and colour swatches and tweezers, rubber gloves and strings of wholly incongruous fairy lights and Christmas wreaths, two whole seasons too early.

 _It's fucking August,_ Kuroo had said, and Lev, wide-eyed, had protested that it was _to get us in the mood for a winter clothing shoot! The mood, Kuroo-san, it's very important!_ , and Kenma simply hadn't been able to summon up the energy to argue over something so trivial, so up went the decorations.

Kenma sees Kuroo turn around and wave as he approaches. He's pulled up a stool next to the makeup table, MacBook open on his lap with some kind of textured 3D model briefly visible onscreen. It's too zoomed in for Kenma to see what it is. It's also an unearthly hour to be sentient.

"Why are you so early? I tried to ring your doorbell on my way over," Kenma mumbles, as he drops his backpack by his chair and flops down in it like a rag doll.

"Too much to do." Kuroo takes one look at Kenma's face and gives him a knowing smirk. "You stayed up late gaming, didn't you?"

Kenma doesn't bother responding.

“Here.”

Kuroo holds something out to him. Kenma takes it. It's a comp card.

“Yaku just passed it to me. Your latest victim,” says Kuroo, turning back to his computer.

Kenma takes a cautious bite of his onigiri. He notes, with relief, that it's _unagi_. A normal flavour. _Safe._

He turns his gaze down at the card.

 _Akaashi Keiji (Fukurodani Agency)_  
_Height: 182.3 cm_  
_Weight: 70.7 kg_  
_Eyes: Dark Green  
_ _Hair: Black_

A list of numbers follow. Shoe size, inseam, waist. Kenma skims over all that; that's for wardrobe to concern themselves with. He notes idly that they are the same age.

With his practised eye, he studies the photograph, and he thinks: it's a good face.

Not a _beautiful_ face. Those aren't good faces for makeup. They stand out too much.

Kenma takes in fine cheekbones, a slightly rounded face shape coming to a pointed chin, a neutral skin tone and sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes that shift from a peaceful forest green in one picture to intense, brooding jet black in another. They're expressive, more than the headshot suggests at first. Whether it's a trick of lighting or a clever application of contrasting makeup colours, Kenma can't quite be sure without seeing the model in person. But one thing he _can_ see right away is: Akaashi Keiji is a blank canvas.

Kenma can imagine almost any look on this guy, and he'd pull it off.

He taps Kuroo on the shoulder. "Is this model new?"

Kuroo's chewing on a pencil, studying his screen intently. He talks around it in an absent mumble. “For us, yeah. He did some work for Bokuto last month. He recommended him.”

Kenma frowns at the memory of the loud, enthusiastic film producer on their last project.

He double checks the production schedule pinned to the top of his mirror. They're jumping right into the deep end ( _literally_ \- figuratively), kickstarting this shoot with the underwater visual. There aren't that many props involved, but the makeup's elaborate, the lighting more still, and the actual rendering of the water, Kenma knows, isn't going to be easy.

Kenma looks down at the comp card again, and imagines Akaashi Keiji wearing the look he's designed. His mind's busy hollowing out his cheeks. Making those slightly pointed ears more pronounced.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks. _This will work._

Then Yaku emerges from the main studio in a flurry, yelling, “Shibayama! Help me get the techs, we need to fix the lighting - where the _hell_ is Lev, he needs to move the potted plants out of the way!”, and the madness kicks off.

 

* * *

 

The thing about working this line is: Kenma's grown used to the idea of models just being _people_.

People with jobs and a particular talent, same as him. Sometimes, the models themselves haven't quite reached that stage of self-actualisation, but no matter what, once they're in his chair it's all the same -

They have to sit quietly, and not move a muscle.

So when Akaashi Keiji ghosts into the studio, nearly invisible all in black - black tee hanging loose off his shoulders, weathered black denim pants that hug his hips - Kenma barely even takes any notice of him, not at first, till Inuoka from wardrobe delivers him to makeup half an hour later, trailing yards of fabric.

"Inuoka," Kenma points out, with a flick of his palette knife, "you'll step on that."

Inuoka looks behind him with a startled cry, and disappears, leaving Akaashi and Kenma alone. He has an unfortunate habit of doing this.

Akaashi, who's been dressed and styled for this shoot in a white wool coat with a high collar and matching boots, gives him a polite nod and says something that sounds like a quick "Hi."

Kenma takes a good look at his model in the flesh.

Those cheekbones are just as promising as the pictures show, a perfect shape to contour; the skin tone nicely neutral, perhaps just a little more towards yellow than Kenma had anticipated. He'll have to adjust the colour balance in the blue-green base coat that he's mixed up.

Akaashi's still standing. There's a slight slouch to his shoulders, a kind of unaffected grace to the way he carries himself.

"Please sit down," Kenma says, gesturing to his chair.

Akaashi does.

Kenma catches his gaze in the mirror, and adds, belatedly, "I'm Kozume… Kozume Kenma."

It's not like he particularly wants to make small talk, or befriend his models. It's just that, at times like this, he remembers something Shouyou said to him way back when.

_If you get your models to relax, Kenma, your job will be easier, so be nice to them!_

And Kenma tries, in the best way he knows how.

"Akaashi Keiji," says Akaashi. His voice is low, a calm, pleasant timbre that fades easily into the background buzz of the studio. "Nice to meet you, Kozume-san. I'm in your hands today."

He doesn't try to talk to Kenma any more than that. He makes himself comfortable in the chair, sitting still and composed as Kenma starts his preparations, sponging off Akaashi's face with a mild astringent lotion.

His breathing's steady. Kenma's learned to pay attention to little things like that: the rise and fall of a person's chest and shoulders, whether they are shaking with nerves or overly excitable.

Akaashi Keiji is neither of those things.

Kenma carries on with his work, and over the next two hours, the only words out of his mouth are instructions: _tilt your head_ , he murmurs, _tip your chin up for me_ , _close your eyes_. Sometimes, he doesn't speak at all. A light pressure on someone's temple, he's learned, is all they need to know when to turn, and how much.

 

* * *

 

"Are you going home?" Kenma asks Kuroo after photography's wrapped for the day.

He shoulders his backpack, flips his light switches off and keeps his kit in his drawers, as neatly as he can. His eyelids feel heavy. His table's covered with reference photographs for tomorrow. He'll have to have a word with Kai about the prosthetics.

Kuroo stretches his arms overhead with a loud yawn, tipping his head back so he's looking at Kenma upside down.

"You look weird like this," Kenma observes, filing away the mouth-on-top look for a horror job one day.

Kuroo ignores this. "Not yet, I think. This scenery's a bitch. I want to finish it."

Kenma nods and turns to leave.

"How was your new model, by the way? Never got a chance to ask."

Kenma shrugs noncommittally. "Normal."

Kuroo's eyebrows shoot up.

"From you, Kenma, that's practically a standing ovation," he says.

Kenma rolls his eyes and heads off without bothering to wave goodnight.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: SHOOT  
_ _how's it going???_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)  
_ _okay._

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: ????_  
_IT'S YOUR FIRST BIG FASHION SHOOT  
_ _KENMA ARENT YOU EXCITED_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)_  
_yeah. i can't tell you the concept because. client confidentiality. but  
_ _we did a visual today that i've never tried before. it was a challenge_

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: !!!!  
_ _i wish i could be in it argh it sounds so cool_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)_  
_concentrate on your own job  
_ _you'd be terrible at this one anyway_

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: hmph  
_ _be nice to your model, kenma!!!!!_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)  
_ _i am._

 

* * *

 

When Akaashi Keiji walks into their studio again one week later, it's a hot day, and the air-conditioning's on the blink.

This time, Kenma notices him.

From the doorway, Akaashi's gaze sweeps the space rapidly; he catches Kenma's eye at his workstation, and gives him a quick nod before being whisked off by Inuoka to wardrobe.

Kenma thinks about what a pain it is to do makeup on sweaty skin, and desperately hopes that Lev fixes the air-conditioning soon. 

He turns his attention back to his sculpting clay, absorbing himself in the finer, meticulous details of cheek musculature, losing track of time until he hears the sound of a stool being pulled over from behind him.

Startled, he turns around.

"Sorry," says Akaashi, sitting down. "I didn't mean to disturb you, Kozume-san. Do you mind?"

Kenma, in the absence of any viable reason to object, shakes his head wordlessly.

Akaashi sits down, slouching forward with clasped hands in his lap. He's still dressed in his own clothes, jeans and a black scoop-necked tee that makes Kenma think, _collarbones_ , even as his gaze wanders over towards wardrobe.

"I thought you were getting changed…" he starts.

"There's some delay," says Akaashi.

"Oh," says Kenma.

"Something to do with the sizing."

Kenma sighs. "Lev messed up with the clothes, didn't he."

Akaashi raises one elegant eyebrow. "Lev?"

"The tall guy." Kenma pauses. He can't think of a way to encapsulate all of Lev's odd jobs in one succinct description. _Assistant_ doesn't seem quite right, given how many things Lev completely fails to assist with, so he settles for, "Our runner."

"Ah. That one." The hint of a faint smile flickers on Akaashi's lips. "Inuoka-san looked like he might start shouting at him, if he stuck around a moment longer."

This comes as absolutely no surprise to Kenma. The only reason he's never shouted at Lev himself is because it simply takes too much effort to raise his voice that much, especially if Lev is agitated.

Akaashi reaches into his pocket, pulls out an iPod and starts unwinding his headphones. He looks at Kenma.

"Don't bother about me. I'll just wait here till they're ready."

Kenma nods.

Akaashi plugs his headphones in.

Around them, the familiar cacophony of the studio settles into a rhythm that Kenma knows well. It resounds in his bones; the shuffling footsteps, beeping phones and panicked cries of _Yaku-san!_ , doors squeaking open and slamming shut, murmurs, mutterings and casual conversations that drift past Kenma's ears like elevator music. He never quite shuts himself off completely, the way some of the others do when they're in the _zone_. He's never learned to do that. His hypersensitivity's a blessing, and a curse; he picks up on every little thing, even as he lets it all wash over him, enfold him in a sea of sensations.

And even without turning around, Kenma's aware of Akaashi's presence at his back. The way he fiddles absently with his fingers when he's idle, the way he glances up, from time to time, watching Kenma work with interest.

It feels strange. He feels strangely exposed. Yet - every time -

Akaashi looks away, always, before the scrutiny gets to be too much, and Kenma counts his exhales the way Kuroo taught him to years ago, keeps his hands steady. Sculpting is careful work. _One. Two. Three._ He breathes into the gaps, feels the fragile bubble around them grow closer, more deliberate.

True to his word, Akaashi gives Kenma no reason to bother with him. He stays plugged into his music until Inuoka finally comes rushing over, full of apologies and a tray full of _dango_ from the stall outside by way of repentance.

They both reach for the same one, and Akaashi laughs, the first sound he's made in the past hour.

 

* * *

 

The next time, everything goes awry. Lev, down with a sudden bout of food poisoning, has to call in sick. Kuroo mentions to Yaku that he's somewhat surprised that with the stuff Lev cooks, he can _still_ get food poisoning; shouldn't he have evolved a stomach of steel by now?

Yaku admits that it is equally a mystery to him.

Kenma tries to glue himself to his PSP and be as invisible as possible.

Then the lighting on an outdoor shoot in the forest doesn't quite go the way they anticipated, and the green screen's being used the whole afternoon by Shibayama's team, and _then_ it starts to rain and Kenma's yanked away from his safe haven in the back of the van to touch up Akaashi's makeup. That's before it gets so overcast that Fukunaga finally speaks up to declare the lighting a total wash, and Tora drops one of his cameras on the ground as they're crossing the carpark in the sudden downpour.

"Let's just can the whole thing for today, Yaku-san," he groans loudly, flopping down in one of Kenma's makeup chairs once they drag themselves, bedraggled and defeated, back into the studios.

"We can't." Yaku presses the heel of his palm into his forehead. "This shoot's really tight as it is."

"Don't panic," says Kuroo. He opens his laptop and flicks over to an excessively complicated Excel document, with numerous colours. Looking at it gives Kenma a headache.

Kuroo taps his screen. "The green screen will be freed up soon. We can shoot at night."

"Kuro," Kenma protests, "I don't have enough time to redo Akaashi-san's makeup now."

"Yeah, but what if we rearrange the schedule a bit? Move up one of the other visuals? One that doesn't need so much makeup."

"That's a good idea," says Yaku. "Kenma, can you do 4B? The airy one. That one doesn't need prosthetics, right?"

Kai shakes his head.

Kenma glances over at the sketches and moodboards tacked all around his mirror. The airy one, as Yaku so succinctly calls it, is, indeed, significantly less involved than the other looks. It probably won't take him more than an hour to do.

He thinks about the new video game sitting in his mailbox at home, and huffs out a tiny sigh.

"Okay," he says.

"Then, Inuoka, please get the 4B wardrobe ready - "

"Roger!" says Inuoka with a small salute, and hurries off.

"Kuroo - "

"Don't mind me." Kuroo smiles wearily as he gets to his feet. "I'll just be in my corner. Working. On water."

Kenma turns at the sound of soft footsteps from the showers, treading the carpeted floor towards them. Akaashi's towelling dry his hair with one hand, a bottle of water in the other. He's changed back into his usual attire of all black. Today's shirt is a V-neck.

"Akaashi-san," says Yaku, as he approaches. "Sorry about this. Can you stay later? We're shuffling some things around to shoot a different look tonight."

Akaashi shrugs lightly. "Sure. I'm not doing anything."

" _Great!_ " Yaku grins. "Thanks. Tora, Fukunaga - once the green screen frees up, maybe you can work on the shoe project while Kenma does makeup."

Fukunaga, in his laconic way, nods; Tora heaves out a giant groan as he gets up off the chair and says, "Aye aye, captain," and Yaku cuffs him on the shoulder as they disperse.

Kenma hears Akaashi stir from behind him.

"What's the shoe project?" he murmurs, with mild interest.

"They're shooting shoes," says Kenma.

Akaashi considers this.

"I guess that makes sense," he says.

A few moments of mutually agreeable silence pass as Kenma studies the reference pictures, lays out the palette he'll need for later, and considers possibilities against those heavy lids and dark eyes.

Akaashi leans back against the makeup table and checks his phone.

Kenma's deliberations are interrupted by a low rumble from his stomach. He looks at his watch. _7.15pm_ blinks up at him. He's got a bit of time, he decides, and reaches into his bag for his wallet.

He looks at Akaashi as he straightens up slowly.

He thinks about food, and his depleted energy levels, and Akaashi, and the socially acceptable thing to do, and dithers in his state of agonised indecision until Akaashi puts down his phone and glances over with a faint smile.

“Don't worry about me," he says. "Go ahead."

Kenma nods gratefully as he beats a quick retreat to the Mos Burger round the corner.

He isn't quite sure what to make of the mixed feelings that stir within.

 

* * *

 

Later, as Kenma's walking back, he catches sight of Akaashi on a bench outside the office, eating a box of _takoyaki_. He's alone.

That's not the thing that strikes Kenma.

The thing that strikes Kenma is that Akaashi wears the same face, whether he's in the makeup chair, or having dinner by himself. He's plugged into those headphones of his again, and he looks, for all the world, like he's completely zoned out.

The thing is that strikes Kenma is -

He's not someone who'll spend two hours on a face and forget the lift of its chin, the shape of its brow, the fine, sinuous lines that the neck muscles make beneath the tip of his brush; and he knows from the way Akaashi Keiji holds himself that he's not zoned out, he just - _is_.

Maybe, thinks Kenma, it's not that Akaashi is a blank canvas. Maybe it's just that he finds completion in the calm of his silences.

Kenma knows all too well how that is.

 

* * *

 

That night, Kenma wraps up so late that he gets to go home with Kuroo, for once.

"It's been a while, huh?" Kuroo remarks.

"Yeah," says Kenma.

The path outside the studios is dim, buzzing with street lights, summer's humid breeze and the persistent chirping of the cicadas. They stop in 7-11 for a drink. Kuroo gets a chilled green tea, and Kenma gets orange juice.

It's easy, falling into their old rhythm; Kuroo's confident stride next to Kenma's quiet one. Tokyo never quite sleeps. They wind their way through sparse, milling pockets of passers-by, all the way down the hill to the station.

Kenma stifles a yawn. He's as nocturnal as Kuroo, but it's been a long day and his eyes ache. The rumbling of the train is like a lullaby, a reassuring constant in the nightscape of the city, and Kenma feels the drowsy warmth creeping up on him.

"Hey," says Kuroo, nudging him in the side. "Want to see this?"

Kenma's eyes, half-closed, blink open.

"Sneak preview." Kuroo grins. He's got his laptop open. He angles it in Kenma's direction, and blows up one of the photos to full screen.

It's the underwater visual, the shoot they did on the first day of this project, and Kenma can't stop staring because Kuroo's really poured his all into this; the water seems to _shift_ under his gaze, radiant blue rippling subtly into midnight, into shadows under corals, rays of distant sunlight filtering through the surface and breaking into a million particles.

And in the corner, there's Akaashi, sitting on a rock and staring off to the right of the picture.

Except it's not Akaashi. It's a siren spirit in a long white coat, something not of this world, and Kenma can barely recognise the subtleties of his own makeup, the hollowed cheekbones, the startling depth of those dark green eyes against the light blue that he wears on his face and hands, and that expression.

"It's amazing," says Kenma, looking up at Kuroo finally.

"It damn well better be, for all the blood we shed on it."

Kenma leans back. He stares up at the ads overhead in their carriage, and imagines that visual splashed across one of these very panels. It'll become reality in a few months.

"I didn't really do much," he says.

"Don't sell yourself short like that, Kenma. Your makeup job on this one was great," says Kuroo. He's straightforward, matter-of-fact; Kenma knows that when Kuroo talks like this, he isn't flattering. He's just speaking his mind.

Kenma knows he is good at what he does. He takes his own pride in it, in an understated way.

Still, looking at Akaashi in the photo, Kenma can't help but marvel nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: zzzZZZZ  
_ _i'm so TIRED kenma……. our director is a monster_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)  
_ _he has more energy than you? i find that hard to believe_

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: > _<__  
_HE IS VERY PARTICULAR ABOUT THE TEMPO!!! OF THINGS  
_ _how is your shoot going???_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)  
_ _i'm tired too. these big projects take too long. the schedule stretches for weeks._

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: BUT!!!  
_ _ARE YOU HAVING FUN THOUGH_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)  
_ _…yeah. i am._

 

* * *

 

They fall into a routine, day to day. Kenma comes to find it comforting in its familiarity, hectic pace and all, resigns himself to dinner at eleven and his body clock being shot to hell.

(Not that _that_ last part's anything new, Kuroo's quick to point out when Kenma, after a marathon makeup job one day, declares he absolutely has to take a nap and disappears into the dustiest recesses of the break room; Akaashi watches him go with a sympathetic look, as sympathetic as he can get with bark-brown texture covering most of his neck and lower face.)

Kenma hadn't exaggerated when he told Shouyou that the schedule stretched for weeks. They don't have their model every day, so the whole thing gets dragged out. When he's not making up Akaashi, Kenma's busy designing and working with Kai on face sculpts. With four different principal looks and an ever-evolving complement of visuals, backgrounds, props and angles, it's by far the biggest project he, or Nekoma Studios, has ever worked on.

He's surprised, one day, when Akaashi joins him on the sidelines of a shoot and echoes his thoughts.

"This is the biggest project I've ever worked on," he murmurs, leaning back on the wall next to Kenma.

Kenma looks at him. He's probably the only person here, he thinks, who knows how tired Akaashi is; no one else sees the dark eye rings and how he looks beneath the makeup.

He notes with a quiet, private satisfaction that said makeup is holding up well. Akaashi wears it easily, like a second skin. Kenma's brush has learned the angles of his face. His strokes are surer, neater, now.

They're in between takes. Shibayama is helping Fukunaga drag some new lights in, and Tora's changing his lenses. Lev, miraculously, is back at work looking none the worse for wear. In fact, he looks twice as energetic as usual.

"Were you really sick?" Kuroo asks bluntly as he helps himself to a cup of hot tea from Lev's tray.

"Kuroo- _san_! I was on my deathbed!"

"Spirited as always," Akaashi remarks.

Kenma sighs. "Too spirited…"

As he watches Kuroo and Lev bicker on the other side of the room, Kenma adds, without turning, "You've grown used to us, Akaashi-san."

"I guess I have," says Akaashi, a small smile playing round the corners of his lips. "You're like a family."

Kenma hesitates. He sinks back into his quiet, _their_ quiet, and it's not a shocking realisation so much as a organic, inevitable one, at the back of his mind: that he's grown used, too, to Akaashi's presence, to sharing this space with someone who doesn't tire him out.

"Is this really your biggest project so far?" he asks Akaashi.

Akaashi nods. "Yeah. Well, there was Bokuto-san's film. But I only got involved in it because he's a friend from school."

Kenma doesn't miss the way Akaashi's brow furrows, ever so slightly, when he says  _Bokuto-san_. Absently, he reaches for a powder compact from his pocket, flips it open and touches up Akaashi's forehead.

"You look like you want to ask me something," says Akaashi, eyeing Kenma with curiosity.

This close, his gaze is piercing, startling, yet there is understanding in it that penetrates deeper than any probing.

Kenma, caught off guard by Akaashi's noticing, reaches for the words. "Um. Just then. You seemed... a bit..."

"Oh. Annoyed, right?"

Kenma doesn't say anything. He steps back, snaps his compact shut, drops his head so his hair hides his face.

Akaashi's smile turns exasperated, for a moment, then he lets out a small chuckle, dissolving into a kind of helpless resignation.

"Bokuto-san's one of my best friends, but he's an exhausting person. I don't like going to so much trouble if I can help it... and it was really tiring. I haven't been modelling for that long."

In light of this new information, Kenma re-evaluates Akaashi Keiji, and what he's come to think of to some extent as his practised, experienced ease; somehow, it's nice to know for sure that most of it's really just his natural self.

Akaashi glances down at him through long, glittering lashes. "You seem surprised."

"Yeah," says Kenma. "Because you're good."

It's a statement of fact, like Kuroo telling him the same of himself. Kenma doesn't blush to say it or anything. Still, he doesn't bargain for that slight widening of Akaashi's eyes, the way he looks at Kenma in that instant.

"Thanks," says Akaashi.

He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have time to, before Tora beckons him over to continue the shoot, and Kenma thinks that's probably all he had to say anyway.

It's fine. Those words are more than enough for Kenma, too.

 

* * *

 

He sits in a sunbeam, one afternoon; it's not deliberate, but he doesn't realise till he's sat down, and it's too much effort to shift himself to another spot further down the back doorstep. It's not like he'll be here for long anyway. Lunchtimes are precious grab-and-go moments now.

With a tiny sigh, he opens the plastic lid of his takeaway rice set and splits his chopsticks apart.

He hears footsteps from behind. He doesn't have to turn to know who they belong to, by now. He knows the sound of them.

He turns anyway.

"Hey," says Akaashi, a 7-11 plastic bag in his hand.

Kenma looks up. "Akaashi-san."

Akaashi's gaze drifts down to a spot on the doorstep. "Mind if I join you?"

Kenma shakes his head.

Akaashi sits down. _In the shade_ , Kenma notes. One doesn't get to be a model, he supposes, without learning how to protect one's face from sun damage. Akaashi has really nice skin.

Kenma pops a roll of _tamagoyaki_ into his mouth, chewing it slowly. Akaashi takes out a box of healthy-looking sushi. They tuck into their lunches without further conversation.

Here, tucked away behind the set and the mayhem, Kenma can smell summer in the trees and the cracked earth beneath their feet. There's a trail of ants slowly winding their way across the dirt. Kenma watches them for a while as he finishes up his food.

The sunbeam's warm on his face. It's a nice sensation.

When he gets up to return to his workstation, he sees Akaashi watching the ants as well with a mild curiosity. The sight is, oddly enough, reassuring in its unaffected simplicity.

 

* * *

 

The next time Kenma eats lunch on the doorstep, Akaashi doesn't ask to join him. Not in words. He hovers, hangs around just for a second on the edge of the doorway; Kenma looks over his shoulder, doesn't miss the tacit pause for consent in the space of their silence.

When Akaashi sits down, Kenma doesn't protest.

He's remembered, this time, to sit a little more in the shade. They are close enough for Kenma to catch a glimpse of what's inside Akaashi's homemade bento box. The smell of mustard and soy sauce with the vegetables is unmistakable, and nostalgic; _karashi_ , reminding Kenma of his mother's home cooking.

Akaashi nods to Kenma, unwinds those headphones of his and plugs in again.

Kenma picks up the pieces of his courage. Maybe it's not so difficult, if it's Akaashi. He resolves to ask, next time, what it is he's always listening to. He does not particularly resolve that there will _be_ a next time. Perhaps there will. Perhaps there won't.

 

* * *

 

(There is.

And the time after that, and after that.)

 

* * *

 

And when Kenma finally asks -

Akaashi smiles, and offers him an earbud.

Kenma, with some brief hesitation, scoots closer and carefully inserts it into his right ear.

He's surprised to hear an English song, and then more surprised yet to realise: he recognises it. Kenma doesn't know many English songs.

" _Defying Gravity_ ," he says softly, looking up at Akaashi.

Akaashi looks startled. "You know _Wicked_? It's my favourite musical."

"I don't. Really. Know these big musicals," Kenma starts. "But I saw a clip of this one on YouTube. Shouyou… um, my friend - "

The flash of sudden recognition in Akaashi's eyes catches Kenma off guard, and he stops short.

"Hinata Shouyou? I know that name."

"Yeah," says Kenma. "Have you seen his work?"

"He's getting a lot of attention lately," Akaashi remarks. "He's short, and he's raw, but you can't help but stop and stare at his ads when you see them on the metro. There's something magnetic about his presence."

Kenma nods. He knows exactly what Akaashi means. He's seen it firsthand, after all.

"He was one of the first models I worked with. When we were both starting out," he tells Akaashi.

"That must have been an experience," Akaashi says, after a brief pause, and Kenma thinks, _experience_ is one way to put it.

"Anyway… Shouyou, well, he sent it to me. He thought I would want to see it. The makeup is incredible."

"Yes," says Akaashi. "That head to toe green on Elphaba every day."

Kenma tears off a piece of fish with his chopsticks and pops it into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, and swallows. "It's not hard. It's one colour with no prosthetics. And she wears a bodysuit. A green leotard? So they just need to blend the green makeup on her face with that…."

Kenma, listening to himself, trails off; he's struck by the sudden worry that he's boring Akaashi to death. But Akaashi's keen, calm gaze never leaves Kenma, even as he picks up his iPod and lowers the volume.

"Really? So how long would it take to do makeup like that?"

Kenma shrugs. "Thirty minutes?"

Akaashi's eyes widen. "Really?"

"Mmm." Kenma nods.

"So what's incredible about it?" Akaashi asks.

Kenma hesitates before answering.

"That for something that only takes thirty minutes… that's what everyone remembers."

It seems obvious to him. When he says it, he isn't sure how it comes out, whether it sounds strange, or lazy. This isn't something he's put in words before, not even to Kuroo or Shouyou. They're people who throw their all into what they do, after all, but that's not how Kenma expends his effort.

The lingering curiosity on Akaashi's face resolves itself quickly into an enigmatic half-smile.

"I see," says Akaashi. "I think I understand you, Kozume-san."

"Just Kenma is okay," Kenma murmurs.

Akaashi nods.

They sit on the doorstep till the end of the next song.

 

* * *

 

Sunday brings with it the best weather of the year, a sweltering wind, and an unexpected encounter that gives Kenma pause.

Akaashi isn't scheduled for a shoot today. Then again, technically, no one's scheduled to be here today. It's a weekend, not that that means very much, in their industry; but summer's gorgeous, sweet and sultry, and Kenma's munching on the watermelon he bought from the fruit seller on the corner of the park. The branches of the trees are sun-kissed, leaves glistening in the light. The pavement is warm.

If Kenma stops for a second, lets his keen senses take in all that's around him, he can hear the soft meowing of the neighbourhood cats from the other side of the thrown-open window. _Natural light._ Streaming through the sky, dust motes floating in the air before his eyes, wind sweeping his hair past his cheek. He likes the way he can curtain himself off like this, pretend he's in a space that's all his own.

He's not at his usual place by his makeup table. It had seemed apt, today, to take advantage of the sunshine to bring fire to life on his paper.

The rest of Tokyo is outside. They are not. In the time-honoured way of production studios, they have, instead, by some unspoken compact, all found themselves in the office instead. Tora and Fukunaga are rushing the shoe project, which has fallen behind. Kuroo's given up on getting any CG or post-processing done at home, declaring that there are just too many distractions, and Kenma, with nothing better to do, had accompanied him in. And Kai is making ears.

Kenma's gaze follows Akaashi's tall, lean figure as he lingers in the doorway, eyes the empty makeup station for a moment of politely confused irresolution, before he turns, slowly, and finds Kenma by the window.

As Akaashi makes his way across the floor to him, one hand raised in greeting, Kenma looks back down at his paper.

"Hey," says Akaashi. "Morning."

“Morning,” says Kenma.

He puts down his paintbrush, reaches for the plastic bag by his side and offers Akaashi a slice of watermelon.

Akaashi takes it with a small nod of thanks. He pulls up a chair. When he sits down, he does so noiselessly; Akaashi moves, not with the silent prowl of a cat - that's a different kind of stealth, one that Kenma's come to attribute to Kuroo - but like he's ghosting on the wind, soft as feathers, always.

In response to Kenma's unspoken question, Akaashi shoots a look over at Yaku's office.

“Yaku-san called me. He said - "

But Akaashi does not get to finish his sentence, because it's exactly at that point that, as if on cue, Kenma hears a familiar set of footsteps running up behind him. _Running_ , and that's how he knows this can't be anything good.

Instinctively, he tries to hide behind his hair, scrunches his shoulders so he's smaller -

"Kenma!" Yaku calls. " _There_ you are!"

\- it doesn't work, of course.

Yaku appears at his shoulder, his face a picture of abject apology outlined in gritted teeth, and Kenma steels himself for what he inevitably senses is coming his way.

"Akaashi-san, you're here too! Perfect."

"You asked me to come, Yaku-san," Akaashi murmurs.

Yaku smiles. He turns to Kenma. "Sorry, Kenma. I know you aren't down for a shoot today, but we need some different angles on that look you did the first day. For the water visual."

Kenma thinks about how much Kuroo is going to yell when he finds out about having to do new scenery. His gaze flicks over to Akaashi, sitting across from him, finishing the last of his watermelon slice as he listens to this exchange.

"What kind of shots?" Akaashi asks.

"Close-ups," says Yaku. "Mostly tight on your head and shoulders. It'll really make the white coat pop. Especially with that makeup."

Kenma’s shoulders sag. He feels the rest of his day ebb away with every second that passes. Close-up is the worst sort of shoot. There's only so much that post-production can do with this level of detail. His paint job will have to be pixel-perfect.

He looks up at the clock. "What time?"

Yaku grins hopefully. "Now?"

"No," says Kenma, turning back down to his paper. He picks up his brush again, and dips it into the red palette.

" _Please_ , Kenma…"

Kenma sighs. "Let me finish this first."

Yaku pumps a fist in the air. "Thanks! Akaashi-san, we'll get you to wardrobe right away, then."

Akaashi shoots Kenma a look of commiseration as he stands up and follows in Yaku's wake.

Kenma sighs again, this time under his breath. There's no one else around to hear it, after all.

In haste, he finishes his painting, leaves it by the table to dry and heads over to makeup to get the water makeup ready. His hands find blue, find sponges and palette knives and astringent lotion, lays out the mise-en-scène with care, and there's something in the process that makes it all come back to him -

 _Day one._ He'd stood here, looking down at Akaashi Keiji's comp card. That was when Akaashi had been a face, black hair and green eyes, nothing more.

Akaashi comes up then. He takes his seat at Kenma's table, and smiles at him in the mirror. It's sudden, unexpected, and Kenma feels his hand slip just a little as he picks up a moistened sponge, makes the first swipe at Akaashi's jawline.

"Feels like _deja vu_ ," Akaashi remarks.

Kenma, caught off guard by his thoughts said out loud, can only meet his gaze and nod.

"You know, Kenma-san, I've been wondering about you…"

Kenma pauses. "Wondering? About me?"

"Mmm. Yeah," says Akaashi. "About your work. I'm curious. I know I can't really talk while I'm in this chair. But you can. If you don't mind, I think I'd like to hear about what you're doing as you go along."

Kenma's hand falls to his side. He blinks, cheeks reddening slowly.

"You want me to… tell you what I'm doing?" he repeats.

Akaashi nods.

"Only if you don't mind," he says again.

 

* * *

 

And Kenma, to his own quiet surprise, finds that: he doesn't, not really.

It's an awful lot of talking. He's not used to it. But it gets easier, as the minutes tick by. It gets easier, because he understands Akaashi by now. He knows that Akaashi is listening, always; knows the sound of his attentive breathing, not so different from Kenma's own when he's absorbed in something.

He trips over the words at first. He has never done this before, though he knows the mechanics of his craft, knows the ins and outs of the process by heart, too much of it has become second nature. And so, haltingly, he speaks, and stops. He starts to tell Akaashi about the blue-green base coat he's applying. It'll go under a top layer that's lighter, skin-toned with just a few touches of luminescent blue so that he looks ethereal, but not alien, beautiful, but not uncanny.

 _Now_ , says Kenma, he's darkening the space just below his cheekbone with a few skilful strokes, _now_ , he's making his chin sharper and finer with some judicious use of shadows.

As Akaashi closes his eyes, Kenma paints his lids with a fine-tipped brush and tells him, lash by lash, that the extensions he's attaching are flecked in gold and white, and they are arresting when they go with his green eyes. It will look stunning in these close-up shots.

 

* * *

 

 _Thank you,_ Akaashi tells Kenma, when the day's over and Kenma's cleaning the makeup off his face.

Kenma, words spent, lets the corners of his lips quirk upwards in response.

Akaashi's answering smile is appreciative. It says everything that Kenma needs to hear.

 

* * *

 

On the last two days of shooting, Kenma finally gets to go to town on the red palette, his own favourite. He's been looking forward to this.

His painting, now dry, is pasted on a corner of his mirror, and Kai's prosthetics are perfect; they bring out the sharpest and most radiant of Akaashi's features, and Kenma, for once, doesn't hold back.

It's liberating.

He spills gold lavishly, and he realises, in the careful detail of his brushwork, that -

He couldn't pull this off with anyone else.

Somewhere along the way, in between takes and the hours of silence upon silence in the makeup chair, in the shared spaces they have carved out of this crazy hubbub of activity, they have learned to trust each other completely and wholeheartedly, and there is no special effect or trick of makeup that can match that chemistry.

When Akaashi steps in front of the camera for the final time, he's clad in ash-grey and black leather, and everyone gasps.

"You've outdone yourself, Kenma," Kuroo murmurs, an impressed smile spreading over his face.

Kenma, warm around his collar, nudges the window open just a fraction more.

 

* * *

 

At the wrap party, Akaashi's dragged over to the punch table by a very drunk Tora.

As usual, it is Lev's fault; he has brought a bottle of actual vodka from Russia, and he's severely overestimated the tolerance of just about everyone here except for Kenma, who is smart enough to stay away.

Kuroo, in the centre of the floor, is wailing out some impromptu karaoke on an air guitar, and even Yaku's gone, playing the drums on an empty punch bowl.

Akaashi throws Kenma a helpless glance over his shoulder.

Kenma hides his amusement behind a modest sip of apple juice and watches him go.

He turns around and heads towards the back door, feet finding their way automatically to a familiar doorstep. He sits down. Breathes in the evening air, and the scent of summer's end, softly waning away in the cicadas' cries.

The breeze that brushes by the back of his neck is balmy.

He thinks about partings, and farewells.

 

* * *

 

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)  
_ _we wrapped today_

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: WOOOOHOO!!!!  
_ _congrats kenma!! are you celebrating_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)_  
_i'm at the wrap party now. everyone is drunk._  
_except the model  
_ _but i think they're trying to get him drunk_

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: lol_  
_geh. i'm still on set D: your party sounds like a lot more fun  
_ _you don't sound drunk_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)_  
_i'm not._  
_sorry, i should have said, everyone is drunk except the model and me.  
_ _i think i'll miss him._

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: well…_  
_of course you will!!!!  
_ _it's a special kind of bond that you form with your models! isn't it_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)  
_ _yeah…_

 

* * *

 

Kenma doesn't add, _this one more than most_.

He doesn't add it because it's true, and not true, at the same time; he knows that Akaashi will move on to other jobs, and he knows that Shouyou is right, and that there will be models for him after Akaashi, and they will form bonds in different ways. Perhaps these bonds might even come easier, now.

His heart feels like it might just be a little more open, a little more ready to defy gravity in his own, indefinable way, even as his feet stay firmly rooted.

One thing is true, though, and that is that he misses Akaashi.

The seasons change. Autumn sweeps down upon them in a flurry of falling leaves and burnished bronze sunsets. Kuroo's in the last stages of post-production, the telltale dark circles appearing under his eyes again, bedhead growing more and more out of hand by the day.

Kenma starts wearing his scarf and thick red coat to work. He retreats from his spot on the doorstep as it gets chillier, and eats his lunch indoors instead.

It doesn't really feel the same anymore, anyway, sitting there on his own.

 

* * *

 

He'd come in the morning after the wrap party as the only one without a hangover, and therefore, the only functional person in the office.

He's used to that. He's been to his fair share of wrap parties, by now.

On his table, he'd found -

A name card with a mobile number and a familiar photograph on it, and a CD: the Original Broadway Cast Recording of _Wicked_.

 

* * *

 

When the ads go live in Shibuya, Kenma stops to stare for a moment, standing on the corner of the scramble with a cup of hot gingerbread latte from the Starbucks upstairs in his hands.

It is even more stunning than anyone had envisioned. It is Kenma's first time seeing them all together like this, their bold, elemental mosaic, blown up to larger than life, and he hears the whispers on the streets, picks up on the wide-eyed admiration from the milling crowds of Tokyo, fashionistas and schoolgirls and well-dressed men alike.

_Water. Earth. Air. Fire._

Beneath gold-flecked lashes, green eyes, deep as the forest, dark as malachite, pin Kenma to the spot; he thinks, they look just like the image that's been in the forefront of his mind for months.

He's always had an excellent visual memory.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: I SAW THEM_  
_YOUR ADS_  
_THEY'RE SO GOOD HOLY SHIT KENMA  
_ _YOUR MAKEUP IS AMAZING IN THEM_

 _To: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (no subject)_  
_thanks.  
_ _it wasn't because of me. it was everyone._

 _From: Hinata Shouyou_  
_Subject: (flex emoji)  
_ _you always say that!!! be PROUD of your work_

 

* * *

 

And Kenma, passing by a rack of magazines with Akaashi on the cover, thinks:

He _is_ proud.

He buys two copies, one to keep at work, and one to keep at home.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Kenma. You should text Akaashi," says Kuroo.

Kenma tears his eyes off his PSP. He looks up at Kuroo. They're on the metro, and it's crowded today, at peak hour, so they're crammed into the aisle with a horde of commuters. Kuroo's grabbed on a handhold overhead. Kenma, as he does, stubbornly refuses to relinquish two-handed control of his game.

He's used to it anyway, the movements of the train beneath his feet. It's second nature, the minute adjustments he makes while standing up, the way he shifts his weight into his heels.

He's used, too, to Kuroo's blunt honesty about things that matter.

 _If we keep working hard at this, we'll be the best one day._  
_Don't quit studying makeup, Kenma. The junior producers know you're awesome.  
_ _You should text Akaashi._

Kenma doesn't ask why. If it's Kuroo, he knows there's no point in hiding.

Instead, he asks, "How?"

Kuroo taps the pocket on the front of Kenma's jacket, right where his phone is.

"You have his number, don't you? Just tell him something like, _hey, don't the finished ads look great._ "

"I don't have to tell him that. He knows it," says Kenma.

Kuroo's lip twists in an expression that's half amusement, half exasperation.

"You're not with each other all the time any more, Kenma. You can't count on your silences to do the talking for you."

Kenma, having nothing to say to that, looks out the window at the skyscrapers passing.

He thinks he catches a glimpse of watery blue on a billboard.

 

* * *

 

Words have always come easier to Kenma when he has the time to type them out, but he struggles, still, to find what he wants to say; wishes there was some way he could send a feeling instead, a sensation of winter pricking his skin with a cold, fiery chill, the memory of summer and the taste of watermelons.

In the end, he settles for a picture.

He cuts the ad out of the magazine's centrefold. It's glossy, and he holds it carefully, so that he doesn't leave prints on the paper; he sticks it on the corner of his mirror, and he takes a photo of his workstation.

He sends it to Akaashi without any caption or introduction.

Akaashi's reply comes in a minute later.

When Kenma opens it, he is calm, breathing easier than he has the whole day leading up to this moment, and for some reason, the brevity of the message warms his heart.

It contains only two words. So does Kenma's reply, sent instantly without a second thought.

 

* * *

 

 _From: Akaashi Keiji_  
_Subject: (no subject)  
_ _coffee sometime?_

 _To: Akaashi Keiji_  
_Subject: (no subject)_  
_okay.  
_ _tomorrow?_

 

* * *

 

They meet in Nerima, for old times' sake.

Kenma slips out of work early that day. He leaves the magazine page pinned to his mirror. He hadn't planned to make it a permanent fixture; it had been a prop, for the moment, for that photograph, but now, he thinks it looks good there.

The snow has come early this year, and it's already dark. Kenma's boots make small crunching sounds along the pavement. Today, his game is in his bag, and he is listening to music as he walks.

Through the hazy, dreamlike street lights, the gently swirling snowfall and the hush that descends along with the blanket of white, he sees him.

He is dressed in black, like always, and he's outside the cafe, waiting on the doorstep. It's such a familiar image, thinks Kenma - that reclining figure against the brick wall, face framed in half-light and shadows - and he is breathless, for a second, lost in reminiscence, then it all comes rushing back.

As Kenma approaches, he lowers the hood on his coat. The wind whips his hair into his face.

Akaashi straightens at the sound of his foostep.

He turns, and his lips part, slightly; Kenma thinks that he must be wearing lip balm or perhaps, even, _lipstick_ , because the winter hasn't chapped them the least bit, and as they stand gazing at each other for a wordless moment, he thinks that his first impression was correct.

It's a good face.

"Hey," says Akaashi softly.

Kenma smiles.

"Hey," he says.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (please enjoy [Akaashi and Kenma watching the ants](http://i.imgur.com/8GjRDfC.jpg))
> 
> i'm always yelling about hq!! and akaken at @nahyutas on twitter!


End file.
